The are twins, Alfred and Matthew Jones. They aren't identical twins, but they're close enough. They went to different schools due to their parents dying when they were one. Their parents left their two houses, one in Canada, one in America, and their kids to two people. Arthur Kirkland, a brit, and Francis Bonnefoy, a frenchman. Arthur being the Mom older brother and Francis their Dad's best friend. But the will didn't say who gets who. After a long court battle Arthur got Alfred and the house in America and Francis got Matthew and the house in Canada. Since they were too young to remember each other and the brit and frenchman had a burning hatred for each other they never saw or remembered each other.
In Long Island, New York a 12 year old Alfred Jones woke up to the fire alarm going off. He rolled his eyes. It was the third time this week that Arthur had set off the fire alarm cooking, and he only tried cooking two times so far this week.
"Wassup Artie!" yelled Alfred as he slid into his star speckled seat.
"Use proper english and don't call me Artie!" scolded Arthur. Arthur fanned out the flames on his burnt scones. "If you use proper english you will make more friends than you will if you don't."
"Says the guy with no friends," Alfred joked. He shoveled some yogurt into his mouth.
"You certainly won't make any friends with that attitude," said Arthur. "And I do have friends, you just haven't meet them."
"Whatever, sure you do," Alfred rolled his eyes. "Off to school for me!"
Arthur winced at Alfred's loudness then said "Be nice!" Then after Alfred had left the house Arthur mumbled "Bloody idiot." He sighed and shook his head. My britishness is showing
Meanwhile as Alfred walked to school he could feel the stares of parents on his back. He knew what they were thinking. It happened all the time when he was walking alone. Either the judgemental glares of those who didn't know of the accident, or the pitying of those who did. Alfred didn't know which was worse.
He stood up straighter, grabbed the second strap of his Avengers backpack, which had been flailing around in the air, and started walking faster to his next class. If you acted confident and like someone was expecting you, bullies left you alone. Act confident until it was real he always said. He sat down in the cold blue seat of the third row. First and second row were reserved for the smart kids and the back was reserved for trouble makers.
The teacher jumped when he dropped his books on his desk. When she saw him she gave him a sympathetic smile. Alfred had never seen her before, and he knew most of the teachers.
I don't want sympathy, Alfred was still thinking about the parents dropping their kids off for their first day. I don't even remember them. He had no memory of his parents, only the pictures of them that Arthur hung around the house. He couldn't miss what he couldn't remember. No memory of anything before his third birthday. No memory of the car crash that killed his parents.
He heard a snap and in the teacher's hand laid a broken piece of chalk. On the board was a half written name. The teacher sighed and continued writing her name, Ms. Héderváry.
The bell rung and all the kids poured in. The cool kids all strutted to the back while the smart kids rushed to the front. He zoned out for most of the lesson, he knew it all anyway. He couldn't wait for school to end so he could go out on the baseball field and be the hero. Not to brag but he was the best. That's why his nickname was hero. He remembered the first time he hit a homerun.
It was a hot summer day. No breeze, just constant 95 degree heat. The sun was beating down on Alfred as he jogged up to home plate. He stood there bat ready to hit, in his red, white, and blue uniform. His teammates cheering "Go Alfred! Go Alfred!" with an occasional "You can do it Al!" in the background. The score was 16-19 favoring the other team. Ninth Inning, two outs. The bases were loaded. The other team was mean. The other team's pitcher, Ivan Braginski, was towering over the pitcher's mound. His purple-blue eyes gleamed when he threw a strike, and froze his opponents. He could strike fear into the heart of anybody.
Ivan threw. I swung.
The Umpire yelled "Strike!"
My team groaned.
Ivan threw again. I swung again.
The Umpire yelled "Strike!"
My team groaned louder.
Ivan threw for the last time. I swung again.
There was a loud "Crack!" and I took off running.
I zipped around first base. I bolted over second. Then I darted through third. I heard my teammates cheering me on. We were tied in score. I slid into home base. The Umpire yelled "SAFE!"
My team lifted me up into the air chanting "Alfred! Alfred!" They carried me to the bleachers where Arthur was waiting and was cheering like crazy. It was the first time he had been this excited. He hadn't even been this excited when he had finally convinced me to read Harry Potter. He picked me up and hugged me tight squeezing my insides. This, I thought, is how a hug should feel.
"I'm so proud of you!" he told me. "You were a hero out there!"
The chanting suddenly changed from Alfred to hero.
Ivan walked over. All the chanting stopped. On his face was his usual blank and slightly crazed smile. He opened his mouth and said "Good job, it has been a while since I had decent competition. Next time I will crush you like a bug." His natural creepy russian accent floating through the air. He held out his hand to shake.
I shook it and said a weak thanks.
The cheering resumed. Arthur gave me another bone crushing hug. Then he whispered in my ear "Your Mom always did love superheros."
The bell rang jerking Alfred out of his thoughts. He picked up his stuff and checked the board for any homework he might have missed. As he walked down the hall some bully, Hunter he thought, tried to trip him. "Watch where you're going loser!" the boy said.
"Good morning to you too!" Alfred called out cheerfully. That's how school went, some bully would try to insult him and Alfred would pretend to be too daft to notice. Later in the day he stopped the same jerk from earlier from taking some poor kid's lunch money and made the jerk pay for five containers of ice cream for the kid.
Alfred walks home, alone. His black sneakers hitting the pavement in a joyful melody. He skips down the sidewalk with his eyes closed humming a song. When he trips over some branches. He stops himself from falling on his face just in time. Right next to his hands was a $20 bill. He picked it up with wide eyes. He looked around to see if anybody was around to have dropped it. Seeing no one he hurried off to his favorite thrift shop, Junior League Thrift Shop in Roslyn. He lived in Port Washington on Long Island, New York. So it wasn't that far of a walk.
He walked into the eccentric shop. Pink and blue wind chimes hung from the oddest places, plants, vases, and even a fish. A rusty iron flute that has a secret compartment containing a sword pops out when you play the B scale. A dress made entirely of keys. Yes it was weird here. And it was amazing.
"Hello." said Alfred. "Anybody there?"
A young girl, about Alfred's age popped out from behind a counter where 'potions' and other 'magical' stuff was held. She pushed her choppy hair out of her face. She had dirt streaked across her face from cleaning.
"Hi Violet!" said Alfred. He ran over to her and scooped her up in a bone crushing hug. "It's been forever since we saw each other!"
"You saw me last week," Violet said. "Now can you put me down, I'm running out of air.".
"Sorry." said Alfred while rubbing the of his neck sheepishly. Then he perked up remembering the reason he was there. "Hey! Do you have any new baseball items!" he asked.
"Oh yeah we do, I'll get Emil to show you, it's my turn to clean the battle axes!" Her blue eyes glanced wishfully at the prized collection of ancient battle axes.
"You really are obsessed with weapons," said Alfred.
"Yeah, Mathias said he'll get me one," Violet said dreamily.
Alfred raised an eyebrow. Man, he thought, this place is weird.
Violet skipped off to water some pitcher plants that were planted in an umbrella hanging from the ceiling.
"WAIT!" yelled Alfred, rushing after her, "Who's Emil?"
"He's my little cousin." Violet chirped happily.
"I am not little!" said a new voice, most likely Emil. He had silverish hair and a puffin on his shoulder. He seemed to be ten. Alfred had learned not to question the Køhler family's weirdness. If he did it might come across as being rude and Violet's older brother might chase him with a battle axe.
"Emil," Violet scolded, holding up one finger, "show him the baseball stuff."
"Fine." Emil groaned. Then he stomped over to the sports section in the back.
As Alfred looked through the collection of randomness he heard a crash. Then he heard Violet yell "Lort!" which Alfred didn't understand, probably another language. "Need to go! Bye dudes!"
Alfred picked up a New York Yankees baseball hat and asked, "How much?"
Emil nodded, " $20 please."
Alfred whistled and skipped as he headed home. He was in such a good mood that he remembered to grab the mail, a chore that Arthur constantly yelled at him for forgetting. He opened the little royal blue mailbox. Alfred drummed his hands on the tin box as he sorted through the mail. It was mostly advertisements and other junk but then something caught his eye. It was fairly normal, manilla colored, Canadian maple leaf stamp, and for some reason a red wax seal with a fleur de lis. The most peculiar thing about it was it was addressed to Arthur Kirkland.